


Small Oracles

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bibliomancy, Don’t copy to another site, Eventual Romance, Fate & Destiny, Fortune Cookies, Fortune Telling, Horoscopes, M/M, Oracles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-14 07:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20188861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Tea leaves, dice, tarot cards, fortune cookies. People grasped at these things because anything was better than being clueless.Not that he actually believed any of it.The universe is trying to tell John Watson something. He keeps looking in the wrong direction.





	1. Signs

Flat on his back, John Watson studied the ceiling of his bedsit, looking for clues in the cracks. People read palms, of course, the lines nature etched into one’s hand when still in utero. Why not ceiling cracks? And many people believed that the configuration of the stars and planets at the moment of your birth would help you make life decisions. Tea leaves, dice, tarot cards, fortune cookies. People grasped at these things because anything was better than being clueless.

Not that he actually believed any of it. But he definitely understood why people read their horoscopes and carefully picked their lottery numbers. There had to be a better way to get out of bed and begin a new day than depressed and without purpose.

Some days, he was so weary of everything that he might have flipped a coin to decide whether he should go on living or taste the barrel of the revolver he brought home from the war.

But today was therapy day, when he would let Ella flip the coin for him. That’s how he saw it, anyway. She just did her job, pushing him towards solutions that wouldn’t occur to him. The people managing his pension expected her to make helpful suggestions, to keep him busy doing other things so he wouldn’t think about killing himself. He would try, once again, to keep living.

He had no family, except for a sister who was usually either drunk or drying out, a pension too small to give him a comfortable life, no real friends, and nothing to do. He’d spent the last three years being vitally important to many people, appreciated by his government. Now he felt like he had been shunted into a closet and told to keep his chin up. _Look on the bright side._

He sat on his bed, trying to see where the bright side might be hiding. He looked at the drab walls, the spartan furniture, the refurbished laptop that Ella had managed to acquire for him (some sort of grant for veterans), and hated it all. Not with energy. That would require motivation. He didn’t want to destroy it all, see it burn in a horrible conflagration. He just wanted to walk out the door, close it behind him, and never come back.

He couldn’t; he had no idea what kind of life he might walk into after closing that door. Mornings were the worst. He awoke feeling like a heavy weight was crushing his chest. He felt an wordless dread, as if he had done something terrible and today was the day he would be exposed. Everyone would know what a useless waste of space he was.

But there was nothing he had done to warrant such feelings, and that was part of the problem. He had amounted to nothing. The years he spent training to be a surgeon had been wasted, his military career cut short by his injuries. He had no wife, no children. No job prospects. Anger had deserted him and left a dark void in its retreat.

This was why he picked up Chinese takeaway once a week and saved the fortune cookie for the next morning. A little, meaningless indulgence. It was why he would find an abandoned newspaper at the coffee shop and read his horoscope every day. He was a Cancer— not the disease, but the crustacean. _Loving, empathic, moody. _

He longed for the day he would read: _Today your life will change. It will have meaning. It will be filled with love, excitement, and purpose._

But today he would let Ella lead. She’d tell him: _Don’t be afraid of feelings, John. Write down what happens to you, and it will make a difference. Keep up your therapy, and soon you’ll begin to feel stronger._

Her encouragement always felt exactly the opposite of cheerful. It felt tentative and half-hearted, as if she knew it was pointless. It made his gut ache. She worked almost exclusively with veterans and knew the kind of burdens they carried— lives lost, lives changed. He would never be the person he once set out to be. The army was gone, surgical practice had left the realm of what was possible. Now he was just an ex-army doctor with a limp and nightmares that woke up him at night, screaming.

Today Ella was a bit subdued. She had gradually adjusted her level of cheer downwards, seeing that he didn’t respond to optimism. Instead she aimed for sympathetic suggestion.

“How’s your blog going?”

“Yeah, good. Very good.” Even to him, he sounded false.

“You haven’t written a word, have you?”

“You just wrote down _still_ _has trust issues._”

“And you read my writing upside down.” She smiled. “Do you see? You’re a soldier, John. It’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life.”

There was nothing for him to write in his stupid blog. Nothing ever happened to him. All those stupid, lying horoscopes and fortune cookies.

“You should do something nice for yourself,” she said suddenly. “Reward yourself. Even if it’s just buying yourself a cup of coffee and a pastry.”

“What have I done that deserves a reward?” he asked. Never mind the fact that he drank coffee at the same shop every week after his appointment. It was a ritual, not a reward.

She cocked her head at him, smiling. “You haven’t given up. You’re a survivor.”

A participation trophy, then. Sort of like a pension. Too little to make a difference.

“Do something for yourself, John,” she said. “Something that you enjoy. Remind yourself that you’re here and you will find new meaning in life.”

Since he’d already rejected her blog suggestion, he considered this. He was a Cancer, compassionate and empathetic, and sensed that she felt discouraged by his lack of progress. He would do it. It would give him something to talk about at his next appointment. Next time, when she saw that he had followed her advice and had coffee, she would feel that her efforts had paid off. At least one of them would feel rewarded.

Today he went to a different coffee shop, one with better, fancier pastries. Usually he ordered a small cup and a biscotti. Today he asked for a medium latte and chose a raspberry cheese Danish from the display case. He paid for his reward and looked around for a table.

All the tables were full. He thought about the scenes in movies where people accidentally met the love of their life in a coffeeshop, jostling their pastries and beverages in a rush for the last empty table, but all these coffee-drinkers seemed to be with their life partners, or maybe business colleagues. Everyone was engaged in friendly conversation.

This made him feel lonely. He thought about asking for a wax bag for his Danish, just so he wouldn’t have to sit in the midst of all this contentment.

Then he spotted an empty table. No one was sitting there, but someone had left an empty cup behind, along with a newspaper and a slew of crumbs. Limping with purpose, he headed for the table, half expecting his soulmate to jostle him in pursuit of the same spot.

No one jostled him. The table was his. A prime location, right next to the trash bin. He swept the crumbs into the empty cup and pitched it, took possession of his small space and the newspaper. The coffee was too hot. He opened the paper and found his horoscope.

_Try something new today! Find a new hobby! Get in touch with an old friend! _

A _hobby_. Maybe he could learn to knit. Or write poetry. Or make origami out of abandoned newspapers.

An _old friend_. Most of the people he’d known in school or at uni were married with children. His army buddies were either in Afghanistan, back with their families, or dead. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hang out with an ex-army doctor, folding paper cranes.

Settling into his seat, he scanned the room, sipped his coffee and contemplated the gooey Danish. Some people ate a pastry with fork and knife, but he was not so timid. He took a bite, felt the raspberry ooze at the sides of his mouth. This was about as decadent as his life got, these days.

As he was reaching for a napkin, he noticed a card sticking out from under the dispenser. Feeling that strange compulsion that solitary diners often feel to look occupied, he slid the card out and read it.

_The Oracle has moved._

_New address: Casimir Cooper, 43 Delphi Street, London._

What was the Oracle? A brokerage, perhaps, or financial adviser. Maybe new-age book store. A yoga studio. A virtual reality arcade. A coffee shop.

The address, a street he did not know. It was in London proper, so probably a stock broker, though they usually went by stuffier names. A small mystery. He tucked the card into his pocket, put the last piece of Danish in his mouth, and drank his coffee.

It was one o’clock and the shop was beginning to clear out. Worker bees were returning to the hive, things to do, people to see, emails to send. He didn’t have physio today, so he had nothing to do. He binned his cup and napkin, headed out into the street.

Killing time was his objective. The longer he could avoid returning to his flat, the more he felt like a normal person. Maybe what he needed was a new place to live, he thought. But there was little he could afford in London. He was already spending too much on his little bedsit— a bed, a bath, and a single burner.

He spotted a book store across the street, the kind he used to frequent when he was a student. _A Novel Idea_ said the sign. It looked like a proper, old-fashioned bookstore, the kind that’s rapidly going out of business, not one of those that would be filled with stationery and calendars and greeting cards, with a few books around the edges. _Something new. _Well, it might be a small step in that direction.

Actually, it was a used bookstore, he discovered as he entered. Paperbacks on racks, textbooks in the rear, hardcover best sellers a few years past their prime arranged by author. A few magazines in plastic sheaths, a bin of CDs by bands no one remembered.

The atmosphere was not dusty or stuffy, but a bit shabby, like the stores where he now had to shop for used clothing. He felt at home among the used books, a used-up army vet with four quid and change in his pocket to last him the week.

He scanned the racks of paperbacks, looking for a mystery or a crime novel. He’d been checking books out of the library to have something to read in the evenings, but that was not an indulgence. Buying a battered paperback was hardly an indulgence, either, though he would have to economise for the rest of the week if he spent any money. The Danish had already taken most of his daily allowance, and he hadn’t figured out dinner yet.

Determined to enjoy his new experience, he worked his way across the racks. Near the register, a title jumped out at him: _Oracle by L.O. Pex. _The cover, which featured a picture of a woman in a flowing Grecian gown against a background of stars, was covered with transparent plastic tape, the kind people use for moving boxes. He opened the cover and looked at the title page. _Casimir Cooper Books, Inc, 1961. _

A small something nagged him, something just on the edge of memory, the tip of his tongue. He for reached; it receded. Shaking his head, he opened to the first page.

“You gonna buy that?” The cashier was looking at him.

“What?”

“You’ve been looking at it for five minutes. Fifty pee, if you want it.” She was in her sixties, he decided, an aged hippy with a long grey braid that might have once been blond. She was wearing a Metallica t-shirt.

He decided, reached into his pocket for the change. “Do you believe in oracles?”

“Sure,” she said, smiling. “My gran can tell your fortune with the Bible. One time, when I was about thirteen, I’d been out with a boy. I wasn’t allowed to date yet, but he kept asking me out, so I got a girlfriend to cover for me. Anyway, it’s the next morning, and I’m walking through the door, and there’s Gran with her Bible, getting ready to read me my fate. And you know what? It falls open right on a page where it tells about the works of the flesh and sinners going to hell.”

He handed her his coin. “Did you confess?”

She shook her head. “She had just about worn that page out, flipping to it so many times. Sometimes I do it, though, like if I’m trying to decide something. You don’t have to use a Bible. One time, I used the phone book. That’s how I met my boyfriend.” She handed him his receipt. “Here’s how you do it.” Closing her eyes, she opened the book and stabbed her finger onto the page. “Now read it.”

It was page 221. He read: “_In the summer, they would play croquet most days._ What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Depends on what your question was.”

“Well, I wasn’t asking anything about croquet.”

“It isn’t going to give you an exact answer,” she said. “It’s like dreams, you know? If you dream about a train, it means somebody you know is going to die.”

“So, what does croquet mean?”

She smiled and lowered her lashes at him. “To play, you gotta have balls.”

He laughed. “Thanks for the advice.”

He heated up leftover Chinese food for his supper. He had already read halfway through the book, which was about aliens who were posing as humans and insinuating themselves into Victorian society. Weird, but hard to put down.

His fortune cookie was still waiting to be opened; he’d forgotten about it in rushing out to his morning therapy appointment. _Maybe it’s something about croquet,_ he thought, smiling. Though normally he would have saved it for morning, he decided he deserved a reward. He pulled off the wrapper and cracked it open. Nobody actually liked fortune cookies, but he always thought that if the fortune was good, you had to eat the cookie, otherwise it wouldn’t come true.

He sifted the slip of paper out of the crumbs: _If you dare nothing, nothing is what you gain. Lucky Numbers: 73, 46, 23,19._

Not croquet, but certainly about balls, metaphorically. He ate the cookie.

As midnight approached, he turned off his reading light. The aliens had taken over all the governments of the world, and it only remained to be seen whether they would decide to destroy the planet, or let everybody play croquet. Even though he’d been reading for a couple hours, he seemed to be no closer to the end. It just dragged on and on. One minute they were in a medieval church in Germany, the next they were flying to Las Vegas.

He wouldn’t sleep much; he never did. Too many nightmares for sleep to be an escape. A year ago, he had known who he was. He didn’t lie awake at night, thinking about what might have been. He didn’t dwell on lost opportunities.

_When did I become so fearful? When did I stop taking risks? _He knew the answer: it was when a bullet pierced his invincibility. His unit had been pulling back, and he’d stopped to tend a fallen comrade. As soon as he knelt beside him, he saw that it was futile. The man was bleeding out. Even if John had dragged him off the field, he would have been dead by the time they reached safety. The soldier was dying, and knew it. John stayed, and he talked. He didn’t even remember what he said to comfort him. He remembered the eyes growing dim, the rattle when his airway filled with blood, the moment when he was gone.

Intellectually, he understood that death is the end of every life. He’d had patients who had died. But he’d never experienced the moment of death so intimately before, so helplessly. He thought about his own life, the mortality he’d held so light while the battle raged around him, as if it were a game where you could just buy a new life. _Everybody dies_; that’s what gives life meaning.

A moment later, he was dying himself. The next thing he remembered was the hospital in Landstuhl, Germany.

He sat up in bed and turned the light back on. 11:59. The eleventh hour.

Maybe it was the wrong page. The cashier chose it, so it might be her fortune. Maybe it was the wrong book. Maybe it was all bullshit. Or not.

He didn’t own a Bible, or any other book. It was _Oracle _or nothing_._

_How does one do this? _He wasn’t superstitious, not really. Well, maybe a bit. But everyone was. And if he was going to consult a paperback book to find out what he should do to reclaim his life, he intended to do it properly.

He closed his eyes, flipped the pages, thinking. _Depends on what your question is._ He wasn’t even sure he could put it into words. He wanted… he needed to know… He had a life which was gone; now what? He was willing to dare something, but what should he dare?

Somewhere, a clock began tolling the hour.

He turned off the light and willed himself to fall asleep.

The next day he had physio. It was painful, but it was the kind of pain that grounded him. His trainer, Mark, was honest and level-headed. He encouraged him, praised his improvement, and chided him when he was lazy.

But not even Mark could figure out why he limped. He made John do leg strengthening exercises, had him lie flat and checked to see if his hips were in alignment. He watched him walk up and down, looking at his posture. He could walk without limping, but it hurt.

Mark shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe a chiropractor would be able to help.”

He wondered if his book might give him an answer.

Cane in hand, he walked. Mark had suggested that he wasn’t using the cane properly, that maybe he was leaning on it too much and it was actually making things worse. So he walked slowly, holding the cane in his left hand, as Mark instructed, because his limp was on the right side. _Strong leg forward, move the cane with the weak leg_. It was hard because his left arm was weak. He’d been doing exercises for his arm and hand, but nerve damage isn’t helped much by stronger muscles. There was no physical reason why his leg hurt; it was a mystery.

He kept his gaze forward, worked the cane and his legs automatically, subvocalising _left, right, left, right._ Just like in the army, he thought.

Looking ahead, he saw balls. Three balls, a pawnbroker. Coincidental, perhaps, but he remembered last week’s fortune cookie: _There are no coincidences; the universe is not so lazy._ He’d puzzled over this bit of wisdom longer than it deserved. It was just a fortune cookie, not the secret of the universe.

The sign on the door read: _Jabez Wilson, Pawnbroker. _

In the window he spotted a croquet set: four mallets, four balls, a handful of wickets.

_Gotta have balls to play._ He opened the door, inhaled the odour of old things. Entering, he was greeted by a stocky red-haired man who was rearranging watches in a case.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

_A cheap paperback novel sent me here. _He didn’t say this. “Just looking around.”

“Are you a collector?”

“Not really.” He glanced at the watches. “You carry a lot of jewellery, I see. I suppose that’s the first thing people pawn when they need cash.”

He nodded. “And collections.”

“What kind of collections?”

“Anything. People collect china, coins, stamps, dice, sports cards, action men, dolls, signatures, original editions, marbles, pottery, artworks, pipes, ashtrays, furniture, antique toys, clocks, dog figurines…” He gestured at the shelves that lined the walls. “People die and leave all this junk to their relatives. Most of it isn’t worth much, so they hock it for whatever they can get. Somebody else buys it, dies, and leaves it to their family. The Circle of Junk, I call it.” He looked at John with curiosity. “Maybe you’ve got something to pawn. You never know how much things are worth until you get them appraised. I can look at anything you’ve got.”

“Maybe.” His parents had left him exactly nothing. His sister had given him a phone, which he couldn’t give up because he actually needed a phone sometimes. There wasn’t anyone who ever called him, but if they ever did, he was ready.

He tried to think of anything else he could pawn. “What’s the most interesting thing anyone has ever brought you?”

Jabez Wilson smiled. “This thing over here.” He walked towards the back wall of the shop where a large, ugly contraption stood. It was about four feet tall, a glass box with a turbaned dummy inside, dressed as a swami and peering into a crystal ball. _Ask_ _Zoltan,_ the sign read.

“It’s actually worth a lot, but who wants that ugly thing in their house?” the pawnbroker said. “I keep it as a novelty. Gets people into the shop. Do you want to ask it something?”

_A very ugly, expensive fortune cookie,_ he thought. “Do the prophecies ever come true?”

Wilson shrugged. “Nobody ever came back to complain, so maybe some did. It has a limited number of fortune cards, none of them very specific. It’s just a penny, so what can you expect?”

He dug a penny out of his pocket and put it in the slot. The crystal ball began to flash, the swami’s hands to move. After about ten seconds, a card shot out of the front.

_Zoltan says: Though you are not luminous yourself, you are a conductor of light._

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He showed the card to the pawnbroker.

Wilson read it and frowned. “Never seen that one before. Sounds a bit rude.”

John gave a short laugh. “I suppose it means _not luminous_ in a nice way.”

The pawnbroker took a penny out of his pocket and handed it to John. “Give it another go.”

Again he fed the coin into the slot, again the flashing lights signalled that Zoltan was thinking. No card came out, though.

Wilson went around and checked the back of the machine. “Looks like you’re out of luck, so to speak. No more cards.”

Watson took this as an omen. “Well, thanks for your time. If I ever come into some dog figurines or something, I’ll give you a call.”

“Here,” the pawnbroker said, holding out a penny. “Lucky penny. Both sides are heads.”

He stuck the card and the penny in his pocket and took his leave.

He bought a falafel sandwich on the way home, avoiding the decision of whether to get Chinese food again. He turned on the small telly and watched with half his mind while he ate. There wasn’t much food left in the flat. Even the cheap bottle of scotch was gone.

The book was sitting on the table. It looked ominous, somehow, as if it were daring him to open it.

He emptied his pockets: the slips from the fortune cookies, the two-sided penny, the Zoltan fortune, and the business card.

_The Oracle has moved. New address: Casimir Cooper…_

He noted the address and something clicked. He opened the book to the title page.

_Casimir Cooper Books, Inc._

He looked at the fortune cookie slip: _There are no coincidences. _

The universe was trying to tell him something.

The book beckoned him now. Or at least he imagined it beckoning. Closing his eyes, he riffled the pages. He wasn’t sure how to tell when to stop. Would he feel something? Have a sudden intuition? Maybe he should have been counting.

“Now,” he said decisively, stopping on a page and stabbing his finger on a random line.

_Your appointment is tomorrow at two. Please be prompt. _

The line was from a scene that he’d skimmed through because not much seemed to be happening. In fact, the entire book was fairly uneventful, despite the outlandish plot. Mostly, the aliens sat around and ate takeaway, discussing how stupid humans were, but still necessary to their plans. The one human who had been invited into their odd society thought he had joined a book club. John found himself identifying with this character because his name was John, and he didn’t seem to have much of a life. The aliens talked about Greek tragedy, went shopping, played croquet. When Book John started having suspicions about his new friends, he made an appointment with a psychiatrist to determine whether he was losing his mind.

“I’m losing _my_ mind,” Real John muttered, looking at the business card. Closing the book, he searched for a place to put it where it wouldn’t weigh on his mind. The flat had a short worktop with a single burner; under that stood a small refrigerator, the type you’d find in a hotel room. Since he’d used the last of the milk that morning, it was empty. He put the book into the fridge, climbed into his narrow bed, and turned off the light.

He woke up several hours later, panting and soaked with sweat. Sitting up in his bed, he checked the clock. 2:00.

It was a just a dream, but not like the others. He was running through corridors, holding his gun. Someone was going to die, and only he could prevent that from happening.

_Just a dream,_ he told himself. Dreaming about a building with endless corridors was new. It probably symbolised something. His failure to find his way through a pointless life, perhaps. Gradually his heart slowed. He shivered.

_It’s tomorrow_, he thought. Another day beginning, and it had already started badly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, walked a half dozen steps to his tiny loo. Inside, he relieved himself, then splashed his face with cold water and looked at himself in the mirror.

_A day older. _God, the days felt slow now. The sameness of them blurred time like a watercolour in the rain. He remembered being a child, looking forward to something special, Christmas or summer holiday. Those days had dragged, as if they would slow and grind to a halt before the anticipated treat. His days felt that slow now, but there was nothing to anticipate. It was odd, he thought, that his days in Afghanistan, filled with blood and death and fear, had raced by. Time had its own rules, it seemed, speeding and slowing as it chose.

He pulled off his sweaty underwear, added them to the pile of dirty clothes, and put on dry. _Laundry, soon._

He drank a glass of water.

_It’s tomorrow. _

_Your appointment is tomorrow at two. _The clock read 2:11 a.m. now, just eleven minutes since he’d awakened so suddenly, almost as if an alarm had gone off.

If he believed his book prophecy, something was supposed to happen at 2:00. An appointment with fate, perhaps. He sat, listening to his own breathing, watching the lights of passing cars move across his bare floor. For nine minutes he counted. 2:20. A deep breath. He watched the clock turn to 2:21, and finally sighed and settled back into bed.

_Good,_ he thought. No more coincidences. Everything would be normal now. No fortunes, no horoscopes, no oracles. Just day after day of… nothing.

Disappointed, he fell asleep.


	2. To Delphi

In the morning, there was no food: no milk, no jam, no eggs. Only the book occupied the small fridge now. He put water in the kettle, took the last tea bag out of the box and dropped it into his mug. He would save the used teabag, have a cup later, though it would be weak. In the cupboard, there was a can of beans and a packet of Super Noodles. Two suppers. He had two days until his cheque would be deposited.

No breakfast, he decided. Just tea. He still had a few coins in his pocket, but it seemed like bad luck to spend down to his last penny before his cheque had arrived. Superstition aside, it created a bad habit of overspending. If he spent more than he had to live on, he must go without. Today, tomorrow, one meal.

He was going to be hungry, so he needed to think of something to occupy his time. Walking would make him hungrier. Maybe he’d go to the library, read all the papers and find a novel to engross himself in. Tom Clancy— there was a new one, he thought. Or maybe he’d re-read that book about Shackleton’s South Pole expedition. No more books about aliens. He was sick of those fuckers and he hadn’t even finished the book.

He took a sip of tea, dunked the bag one more time, and spooned it out to set in a saucer. Wrapping the string around the bowl of the spoon, he squeezed it gently, then noticed that the bag, his last one, had broken. _That’s what you get for buying the cheapest brand_, he thought. _Small economies always backfire_. Looking into the mug, he studied the pattern the leaves had made in the bottom. It almost looked like a—

His phone was ringing. This was unprecedented. Even Harry hadn’t bothered calling him since she gave him the phone, a present from her estranged wife whom she now despised. He didn’t have any appointments today or tomorrow, so it wasn’t one of those annoying robotic reminders.

“John Watson,” he said.

“Hello, Dr Watson,” a voice said. An actual, human voice. Female. “I’m calling to remind you about your appointment today.”

“Today?”

“Yes, at two.”

“Two?”

“This afternoon.”

“Erm… I don’t remember making any appointment.”

“I have you down in my book,” she said. “Ms Mora will see you at two. Please be prompt.”

Before he could ask, the call ended. He looked at the number: (020) 7346-2319.

He pressed _redial. _It rang three times and went to an answering machine. A different woman’s voice spoke:

_This is the office of the Oracle at Casimir Cooper. If this is an emergency, please use the book. If this is not an emergency, look at your tea leaves. If you need to talk to the Oracle, please press 2 to make an appointment. If you already have an appointment, please be prompt. Note that our address has changed. We are now located at 43 Delphi Street._

He ended the call, sat and thought. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

An appointment— for what? With whom? The Oracle? 

Now his curiosity was piqued. With a long boring day ahead of him, it might be a diversion.

On the other hand, his life wasn’t an emergency yet, so maybe the answer was in the bottom of his tea mug. He drank it down to a small amount of liquid and swirled the leaves. Three times, maybe. And then what? He turned the cup upside down in the saucer, then righted it. He knew nothing about reading tea leaves. You were supposed to see something, a figure, a number, a letter? He didn’t know. Tea leaves could look like anything. Like the cracks in his ceiling, it could be whatever he wanted it to be. Maybe that was how it worked, by the power of suggestion. Wish fulfilment. Right now he wished he had breakfast and that his last tea bag hadn’t broken.

He looked inside. A slightly uneven line of leaves encircled the bottom of the cup.

It was a zero. Or the letter O. Or a circle.

Zero. _My life is a big zero._ Zero was how he felt much of the time, empty and useless.

_O, an exclamation of surprise, or delight, or… just about anything. _Oh, fuck.

_O, the symbol of Oxygen. _Well, at least he had plenty of that. Breathing was still free.

_A circle, symbol of time. _He had plenty of that as well. What he needed was something to fill it with.

_O, a hug. _He wasn’t the hugging type, he decided.

_A hole, a black hole, a loophole, an arsehole, a bullet hole._

_A doughnut._

Hungry as he was, he hoped that it presaged a doughnut. Or a bagel.

To avoid thinking about food, he set his phone to remind him to leave for his appointment so he could be on time (_two-zero-zero_), as he’d been advised. On an impulse, he grabbed his pile of small oracles and stuffed them into his pocket. He put on his jacket, grabbed his cane, and left. Though there wasn’t much worth stealing in the drab flat (_shithole_), he locked the door (_keyhole_), and walked resolutely down the hall and out the front door of his building. _O Joy! Another day in the great Circle of Life._

The sky was grey, but that wasn’t anything new in London. At least it wasn’t raining. The library was about fifteen minutes away. He put his cane in his left hand and walked.

Drops of rain were falling as he reached the library. Too bad the tea leaves hadn’t warned him. Rain was rarely a downpour in London, but he didn’t have an umbrella. Fortunately, he was inside before he had a chance to get wet. One small piece of good luck.

Another piece of luck met him once he stepped into the lobby.

“Would you like a doughnut?” a woman asked him, gesturing at a table piled with doughnuts of all kinds— sprinkles, cinnamon, powdered sugar, frosting. His mouth watered. “We’ve got Bartholomew Baker, author of _The Doughnut Kama Sutra_ visiting us today.”

Smiling at his baffled look, she explained. “It’s a cookbook. Have a doughnut. There’s coffee as well.”

He had two, with sprinkles, plus a cup of coffee with extra cream, and thought about a third. He’d check for leftovers later, when he came back through the lobby. He headed into the stacks to find a book.

On a whim, he stopped at the card catalogue to see what other books L.O. Pex might have written. This was an old-fashioned branch, the kind with wooden cabinets full of drawers containing cards skewered on rods. He opened the author drawer labeled _Pe-Pf_ and flipped the cards: _Pew, Pewitt, Pewter, Peyton, Pfaff_.

At the information desk, he asked a librarian. “Could you check online for an author? You don’t seem to have him in your catalogue.”

“Unlikely,” the woman replied. “Our catalogue shows all of the books in the system, which encompasses the entire London area.”

“Please check. The name is L.O. Pex.”

She typed the name in as he spelled it. “Nothing. Are you sure it isn’t Pax?”

“No, I have a book by him. It’s Pex.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. There are a lot of books, and we don’t have every single one of them. If it was a small printing, or a privately published book, it might never have made it into the library system. Where did you find this book?”

“In a used book store. It was printed in 1961.”

She shrugged. “Sorry.”

In the fiction stacks, he found a spy novel he hadn’t read and settled into an armchair. When his phone reminder chimed, he had just finished the last page.

There were no more doughnuts in the lobby, so he went on to catch a train into the city. He still had a few rides left on his Oyster card. Maybe he could think of somewhere to go tomorrow to keep his mind off his belly.

Delphi Street was off of Halifax, not far from the financial district. The train had run late, so it was already after two when he found the street. It took him another few minutes to decide which building it was, as the street seemed to go from 37 to 45. There was an alley between those numbers. _Be prompt. _Finally, fearing he would be too late to find out what the Oracle was, he went down the alley.

At the end of the alley was a building, Number 43. Casimir Cooper, Ltd.

It was 2:21 p.m. when he walked through the door. No one was sitting in the waiting area. The receptionist, a young woman with pink glasses and purple hair, regarded him with a patient expression. He felt confused. _Do I ask for the Oracle? _

“Erm, I have an appointment. Sorry I’m a bit late. The train, you know…”

She smiled brightly. “Dr Watson? Ms Mora is expecting you.”

“I’m not really sure…” …_what I’m doing here _might be how he wanted to end that sentence. But he didn’t. She was expecting him and everything was fine, normal, completely sane and rational. “Is there any paper work I need to fill out?”

“No, you can go right on in.”

This made a strange kind of sense. Any reliable oracle would already know everything about him.

When he entered the Oracle’s office, he was expecting an older woman, grey hair, someone who radiated wisdom and financial acumen, someone who had earned the title. Or possibly a woman wearing beads, burning incense and chanting. But there was no one in the room. A phone was ringing.

“Hello?” he called out tentatively. “Ms. Mora?”

A voice spoke. “Where are you?”

“I’m right here, in your office. Where are you?”

A head appeared from under the desk. A young woman, slight, dark-skinned, with large brown eyes and short black hair. She was talking into an ancient flip phone. “I’ll send Deirdre over with the papers. Bye.” She snapped the phone shut and stood. “It was ringing,” she explained. “I threw it in the trash by mistake.”

“I see.”

Holding out her hand, she stepped towards him. “Which one are you?”

Her hand was no bigger than a child’s. In fact, she wasn’t much taller than a fifth grader.

“I’m John Watson.”

“Oh.” She frowned up at him for a moment. “What do you want?”

It was an unusual experience for him to look down at someone who wasn’t a child. He had spent most of his teen years looking up at girls. As an adult, he’d calculated that twenty-one percent of all women and eighty-six percent of all men were taller than him. As a captain in the army, he’d looked up to a lot of people he had to give orders to. He had very good posture and a voice that could go from calm to hell-no in the blink of an eye. As a civilian, he didn’t consider his height an advantage or disadvantage, but looking down at Ms Mora, who he estimated to stand four feet, nine inches tall, barely on the grid, he suddenly understood how a tall person felt.

“I’m your two o’clock appointment.”

“Sit down.” She perched herself on the edge of the desk, probably to gain a height advantage.

“You’re the Oracle, right?”

“Is that what you wanted to know?”

“I never visited an oracle before. I’m not sure how it works.”

“In the first place, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think I was the Oracle. In the second place, answers cost.”

“How much?”

“Depends on the question.”

“I don’t have much cash with me.”

“Is your question about money?”

“No, not really…”

“Then forget the cash. Money only buys money answers.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It’s traditional to bring a gift symbolic of your question. We used to demand the sacrifice of a goat, but now there are ordinances about things like that.”

She went to to a metal file cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. Standing on tip-toe to reach inside, she pulled out something blue. A penis. More specifically, a dildo. “Lots of men have questions about sex, you know, why they aren’t getting any, so they bring me penises.” She offered it to him. “They come in colours, you know.”

He shook his head. “I’m not… I don’t…”

Shrugging, she dropped the penis back in the drawer and pulled out a baby doll, a dummy, and a rattle. “Women often want to know why they can’t get pregnant. And people always want know if their lovers are cheating on them.” She showed him a pair of dice. “Loaded,” she said.

“I didn’t bring anything. I didn’t realise I was supposed to.”

She closed the drawer. “Is your question about food? I haven’t had any lunch yet.”

“I’m sorry. My question isn’t about food. How did you get this job, anyway?” He should have asked about credentials first, he realised. There were no diplomas hanging on her wall. Were there oracle schools?

“I’ve been working here about five years. Before that, I worked at Xavier— that’s a hair salon. Mr. Casimir was one of my clients. I used to give him advice about investments. My stock picks were always good, so finally, he offered me a job. I do have a broker’s license, so if you ever want investment advice, I can help you.”

“I mean, how did you get to be the Oracle?”

“It’s hereditary. My mother used to be the Oracle, my grandmother before her.”

“Do you get a lot of business?”

She frowns. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“Oh, sorry. Do you charge by the question, or by the hour, or—”

“Just tell me what brought you here today.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit confusing. I keep getting all these signs, and I don’t know how to interpret them. I’m not really superstitious, but—”

“You are. Everybody is. What signs?”

He licked his lips. “Well, I had a circle in my tea leaves this morning, and somebody at the library gave me a doughnut.”

“Circles are actually quite rare, as tea leaves go. Did they give you one doughnut or two? Did it have sprinkles?”

“They said I could have as many as I wanted. I took two. Both of them had sprinkles. There were a lot with powdered sugar, but I avoided those. There’s no way to eat a sugared doughnut without getting the sugar all over you.”

“Good choice. I hate powdered sugar,” she said with conviction. “What else?”

“Fortune cookies.” He pulled out the slips, a bit surprised that she was taking the doughnuts so seriously. “One said something about coincidences. Rather cryptic, but I do seem to be experiencing a lot of serendipity lately. And here’s the latest one: _If you dare nothing, nothing is what you gain. Lucky Numbers: 73, 46, 23,19. _Wait— is that your phone number?”

“Yes.” She picked up the Zoltan prophecy. “_Though you are not luminous yourself, you are a conductor of light.”_

“It sounds a bit insulting, don’t you think?” he said.

“No. It just means that you need to find someone luminous who needs a conductor.”

“How do I do that?”

“Maybe you could look in dark places. Basements, the underground, maybe a morgue or something. A darkroom. You might take up photography. Or try looking around during the next power outage. Where did you find Zoltan? There aren’t many of those left.”

“In a pawnshop.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. What made you go in there?”

“The balls. I mean, I have this book, and the cashier was telling me how you can use a book to tell fortunes—”

“Bibliomancy,” she said. “What book was it?”

“It’s called _Oracle. _I found it in a used book store. And here’s a coincidence—”

“What was the name of the used book store?”

“_A Novel Idea_. Which was what my horoscope said, that I should try something new.”

“The balls,” she said. “Is your question about sex?”

“No. I mean, it would be nice to find someone—”

“So your question is about love?”

“I don’t know. I was actually hoping you might help me figure it out. The book said something about croquet, which seemed irrelevant until I saw the balls, which was why I went inside. Since the book was called _Oracle,_ I asked the cashier—”

“You bought the book? Have you read it?”

“Yes. It’s in my fridge. And no, I haven’t finished. But that’s another weird coincidence. The publisher is Casimir Cooper.”

She nodded. “And…? Did the book say anything else?”

“I don’t have a lot of experience in bib— biblio— what you said. So maybe I didn’t do it right. But the second time I tried it, it was about a two o’clock appointment, and then your office called me this morning, and here I am.”

“Gotcha,” she said, sliding off the desk and moving to the other side. She sat in the large leather swivel chair behind the desk, folded her hands, and leaned towards him.

“I’ll be honest,” she said. “The Oracle has always had a reputation for being obscure. We are not entirely to blame, though. People are impatient. They come with an idea of what they need to know, the question that will solve everything for them. Usually, it’s the wrong question. That’s why the answers don’t make sense to them. The Oracle always knows what the real question is, whether you know it or not.”

“How do you know?”

She shrugged. “Gather the data, run the odds. Most human problems boil down to a few basic issues. Sex, money, power.”

He shook his head. “It can’t be that easy.”

“Sure it is. Example. A woman came to see me last week. Her question: _Should I marry my boyfriend, or hold out for someone better?_ What would I need to know to answer that question?”

“Well, you’d need to know something about her personality, I suppose, and her boyfriend.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Irrelevant. I’m not a psychologist. What else?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone can predict something like that. If you’re a good judge of character, you could probably tell her what her chances are with the bloke, but how could you know who she might meet in the future?”

“Odds,” she said. “I knew where she lived, her age, her income, her profession. From this data I could calculate her chances of advancing professionally or moving to another city. At that point, it’s just figuring in the variables – the percentages of singles and marrieds in a given city, the marriage and divorce rates within various professions, compatibility statistics, economic forecasts, birth rates, etc. Very simple.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Marry him, but expect him to have an affair in about six years.”

“And how long did it take you to figure that out?”

She smiled modestly. “Three minutes. I let her babble on for about twenty, though. People always distrust an answer that comes too quickly. They need some smoke and mirrors to believe it’s legitimate.”

“What is your success rate?”

She looked a bit insulted. “I don’t give wrong answers. People are just idiots.” Picking up a mug, she looked inside and said, “Coffee.” Turning to the door, she shouted, “Deirdre!”

The girl with pink glasses came to the door. “Yes, Miss Mora?”

“I would like some coffee.”

“Right away.” The girl disappeared. John could hear water running in another room.

“Don’t apologise,” the Oracle said.

Puzzled, he left his mouth open for a moment. “Apologise for what?”

“You were just about to apologise for being skeptical. It’s okay. Most people are.”

“I’m just having trouble believing that anyone can calculate odds so quickly without using a computer.”

She shrugged. “It’s what I do. Now, talk. Tell me what brought you here.”

“I just want to know.” He sighed. “What do all of these little things mean? It’s all just so weird, it has to mean something.”

“All right, I think I can connect the dots for you. What are you offering me?”

“I don’t know. My question is so vague…”

“Vague questions get specific answers, and vice versa.”

“Oh, good.” He nodded. “My question isn’t really about money, though I could use more of that. I think I’m going to have to find a flatmate or else move somewhere outside London. And it isn’t about sex, or love, though those things would be good. It’s just… I feel like I’m at a crossroads and don’t know where to go. I’m afraid of making a choice that will change my life without understanding what it will mean.”

Deirdre brought in coffee. The Oracle looked into the cup. “I meant tea,” she said. The girl frowned. “We don’t have any teabags.” She left the coffee.

Sighing, the Oracle turned to John. “I haven’t had lunch yet. You wouldn’t have any biscuits, would you?”

He gave her a cheeky grin. “Don’t you already know that? I mean, you being an Oracle and all that… Sorry.”

“Anyway,” she said, frowning. “Crossroads. All choices are like that. Most people just pick what’s most convenient, marry the person they’re dating, stay in the same job, hope for a promotion. For you, it’s much simpler.” She picked up the two-sided penny. “I’ll take this.”

“What does it symbolise?”

“Indecision. The need for clarity. Fear of change. No matter how many times you flip it, it always lands on heads, eliminating your need to choose.”

He nodded. “All right. It’s yours. What is your answer?”

She stood and opened the drawer, tossed the penny inside. “My answer will be specific, but it may not make sense to you now. In time, it will. Keep an open mind. And don’t come back and sue me. You won’t get clarification if it comes to that. That ship will have sailed.”

“I understand. Whatever you can tell me, I’ll accept.”

“Okay. First—”

“Wait, aren’t you going to use Tarot cards or a crystal ball or something?”

“Smoke and mirrors. I only use those for people who like that sort of thing. I can tell you’re a no-nonsense guy, so I’m just going to tell you straight.”

He leaned forward, his stomach clenching, knowing that she was about to explain the meaning of his life.

“First. Stop eating fortune cookies. They’re really nothing but flour and a bit of sugar. And using them to predict the future is like ringing wrong numbers and asking for advice.”

“That’s… what about horoscopes?”

“No. Just— don’t. Is it reasonable to think that one-twelfth of the world’s population, all 583.3 million of them, need to find a new hobby or reconnect with an old friend, simply based on being born in the same month? Forget horoscopes.” She rolled her eyes. “Cancers are so gullible.”

“Okay, you said _first, _so there must be more.”

“Yes. Second, you need to go somewhere new tomorrow and talk to the first person who talks to you.”

“This is London,” he pointed out. “Eight million people live here, and none of them talk to strangers.”

“Do it,” she said.

“Will that person be somebody important?”

“Not necessarily. But they will point you in a new direction.”

“Okay. No fortune cookies, go somewhere, talk to somebody. New direction. Is that all?”

“Prophecies always have three parts,” she said. “My third and final prophecy is this: look for someone luminous. That person will be in a dark place. They will be your soulmate, the person you are destined to spend your life with— the person who will change your life.”

“Do you mean a person who is phosphorescent? Should I bring a black light to test?”

“You’re being too literal, John.” She looked sadly into her coffee mug.

“I don’t know how prophecy works. That’s why I’m asking. Can I come back if I have more questions?”

“If you like. If you can’t get an appointment, use the book, but only in case of emergency.”

“What qualifies as an emergency?”

“An emergency is usually indicated by sirens. Gunshots. Near-death experiences.”

He limped to the nearest train station, holding his cane in the wrong hand. Part of his brain was telling him he was a superstitious, sentimental idiot to believe what she had told him. He had romantically linked together separate events that were entirely coincidental. The other part of his brain was telling him that he had no balls, that if he did not follow her advice he would have no way to know if it might have been a real answer to his misery.

Misery. That’s what this was. A feeling that he didn’t matter, that no one would miss him if he should take his gun and end his own life.

He wasn’t hungry, but debated between Super Noodles and beans, decided on the noodles, just so he didn’t wake up hungry later.

He lay in his narrow bed that night, trying not to think about anything.


	3. Luminous

In the morning he rallied a bit. He hadn’t been asked to do anything strange or out of the ordinary. _Go somewhere new. _That would not be hard. There were many places in London where he hadn’t been. _Talk to the first person who talks to you._ He was (had been) a friendly person, once. If someone spoke to him, there was no reason for him not to speak back. One step at a time. He could do these things first, then worry about finding someone luminous later.

He had an old map he’d found at a bus stop. People still did use paper for such things. It was a few years old, but so was London. It would do. He spread it out on his table, closed his eyes, and stabbed with his finger.

It landed on the British Museum. Surprisingly, he had never visited. The entire time he’d spent in London, he’d been a student, with little time for museums, concerts, or anything cultural. Well, he could go there today. Worst case, he would spend a few hours learning about history. It might give him something to talk about if he ever did meet someone. And it was free.

He took a train there, got out at the Russell Park station, walked over to the museum. It wasn’t busy; he took a few minutes to look at the people who for whatever reason had decided that the museum would be nice diversion today. There were a few parents with children, a school group, and a half dozen elderly couples. No one who looked like a soulmate. None of them spoke to him.

He saw the mummies, the armour, the Rosetta Stone, and an exhibit about Heinrich Schliemann’s quest for Troy. He lingered over the clocks exhibit, the Mesopotamia gallery. He smiled and nodded at the other visitors, but no one spoke to him. He browsed the gift shop, pretending to look for a souvenir.

At last his leg began to hurt, and he decided he needed to sit for a while. He checked the time: 2:21 p.m. There was a nearby park, Russell Square, and he headed towards it. As he limped along the path, looking for a place to sit, a voice called out to him. Someone had recognised him.

“John! John Watson!”

He didn’t know the face. A chubby man with round glasses and curly hair. Could it be…?

“Mike. Mike Stamford,” the man said, standing and extending a hand. He laughed. “Yeah, I got fat.”

“Mike,” he said. “Sorry. Hello.”

“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”

He grimaced awkwardly, tried for a smile. “I got shot.”

They bought coffee from a vendor and sat on a bench. It wasn’t a warm day, but for January, it wasn’t bad. He would sit here with Mike and see where this went.

“I live in the suburbs,” Mike said. “A wife and two kids. Can you believe it?”

He tried to smile sincerely. It was just another reminder that everyone else had settled in with family and career, and he was no further along that trajectory than when he’d finished med school years earlier.

“Can’t afford London on an army pension,” he confessed.

“Have you thought about a flatshare?”

He sighed. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Mike chuckled.

“What?”

“You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who was the first?” he asked.

Ten minutes later they were entering Bart’s hospital, where he’d done his surgical training. Mike had continued chuckling, but wouldn’t give up any information about the mysterious person seeking a flatmate. 

At the bank of lifts, Mike pressed the _down_ button. _Dark places. Basements…maybe a morgue…_

He didn’t ask. The lift opened and Mike led him down the hallway to a door labeled _Pathology Lab. _

His heart pounded. Mike held the door open and he walked through.

The room was bright, but labs usually were. This was a lab where the deceased came to be analysed, causes of death and disease determined.

Darkness could be metaphorical, he thought. Or maybe there would be a power outage.

The only person in the lab was a man— tall and skinny, with an unruly mop of curly, dark hair. He was hunched over a laptop, typing. Glancing up briefly, he returned to his screen. John had a fleeting impression of pale eyes, alien cheekbones. An odd-looking fellow. Not very friendly.

“May I borrow your phone, Mike? No signal on mine.” A velvety baritone.

Mike had forgotten his phone. John remembered the Oracle’s injunction to talk to people. “Here, take mine.”

The man studied him for a moment with those unnervingly pale eyes. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how…?”

“Sherlock, this is John Watson, an old mate of mine.” Mike looked at John, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

At that moment a woman entered the room carrying a mug of coffee. John turned his attention to her. Brown hair, neither pretty nor ugly. Sweet, perhaps. The kind of woman who faded into the woodwork. She might enter or leave a room, and no one would notice.

Well. If this was his soulmate… John was underwhelmed. But then again, he himself was fairly underwhelming. He would give her a chance.

“Ah, Molly, thank you.” Sherlock frowned at the woman, studying her closely. “What happened to the lipstick?”

The woman smiled awkwardly. “It wasn’t working for me.”

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.”

John felt his heart go out to her. He saw that she had a crush on this rude man, and that he was rejecting her. Rejection was something he’d known.

“I’m John,” he said to her, putting out his hand.

She took his hand, casting a melancholy look at Sherlock. “Nice to meet you, John.”

He thought about offering her something. Maybe lunch. Or coffee. He didn’t really have the funds for a decent meal, but he wanted to give this woman a chance to show her luminosity. She didn’t look luminous at the moment, but a person can’t dazzle constantly. Maybe she was having an off day. He could ask.

“So. How do you feel about the violin?”

He tore his eyes away from Molly and stared at Sherlock. “Sorry— what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” He glanced at John. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

John turned and spoke to Mike. “You told him about me?”

Mike chuckled, again. “Not a word.”

He looked back at the tall man, who was still typing. “Who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did,” Sherlock said. “I told Mike this morning that I was looking for someone to share a flat. Now here he is, and here you are. Not a brilliant deduction.”

Molly had disappeared at some point during Sherlock’s deduction.

“Got my eye on a place in central London. I’ll meet you there tomorrow evening at seven o’clock.” He frowned at John’s speechless confusion. “Problem?”

John found his voice. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know your name. I don’t even know where we’re meeting.”

Sherlock replied with a string of deductions that set John’s head spinning. As he finished, he stood, put his coat on with a flourish, and headed towards the door. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes. The address is two-two-one B Baker Street.” He winked and was gone.

Once more, Mike chuckled. “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

Alone in the morgue, John wondered what had just happened to him. Was the man an Oracle?

Molly had disappeared into the lady’s room. It seemed a bit stalkerish to wait outside the door for her to come out, and then ask her out for coffee, so John left, went back to the horrible bedsit.

He wasn’t sure about sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes. The man seemed a bit dramatic, with the swirly coat, the upturned collar, the high cheekbones, and the wink. Not to mention the oddly accurate deductions. Might be intense. Mike had assured him that his impression was mostly accurate, but John needed a place to live, and sharing rent at Baker Street was his only option at this point. He would meet the man the following evening.

The next morning he checked his bank balance. Still no deposit. He tried calling the Veterans Department, kept getting put on hold, and finally got tired of listening to _Take a Chance on Me._ He’d always hated Abba.

Maybe it was just delayed. He checked his balance again: £2.21. Enough for another doughnut, maybe two.

He had an Oyster card with a few rides left on it, but little cash. The Super Noodles and the beans were gone.

He didn’t like giving in to desperation. He understood that he couldn’t ask Molly out until he had money in his account, but it might be nice to chat her up a bit. Since he’d only met two new people yesterday, there was a good chance that she was his soulmate. Having nothing else to do, he took a bus to St Bart’s and made up a story about how he was there to meet a friend, just thought he’d stop and say hello.

He had enough coins in his pocket for two cups of coffee, so he stopped at the hospital canteen and got two cups. The he realised that he didn’t even know how she took her coffee. He grabbed a few sugar packets and some small tubs of whitener and shoved them in his pocket.

She was in the lab, alone.

“Hi,” he said. “Just thought I’d drop by and say, erm… thanks.” He set a cup of coffee in front of her.

“What for?” she asked, frowning at the paper cup.

“Well, for being nice. And for bringing coffee for… Sherlock. That was… erm, nice.”

“He already thanked me,” she replied.

“Oh, right. Well, people don’t always remember, so that’s why I’m saying thanks now.” He motioned at the cup. “I brought you some. Coffee, I mean.” He rummaged in his pocket. “And I brought sugar and, erm…” The tub of whitener had apparently opened in his pocket. “Well, I brought sugar. Didn’t know how you take it.”

“I don’t drink coffee. Just tea.” She looked at him, frowning. This wasn’t going well. Maybe he should have read his horoscope before heading out.

“Oh. Sorry. I just thought…” What he thought was probably obvious to Molly.

“Are you trying to ask me out?” she said. “Because if you are, that’s very nice, but you’re not really my type.”

He remembered how sad her eyes were when Sherlock ignored her. Maybe it was cruel to ask her out, when it was his flatmate she loved. But it was humiliating to have his advances rejected by a woman who seemed unable to attract romance. And she was supposed to be the one, wasn’t she? A luminous person in a dark place, a person he was supposed to spend his life with— it was obvious, wasn’t it?

“Erm. I’ll just be going, then.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t seem to be very good at this.”

“This? What _this_?”

“Romance.” She coloured and stared down at her hands. “You seem like a very nice person, John. I just don’t seem to be attracted to nice people, though.”

He nodded. “I understand. You seem nice, too. But I guess it’s not meant to be, is it?”

She smiled. “Yeah. That’s what my horoscope said this morning.”

He began to turn. Thinking of something, he reached into his pocket.

“This might help,” he said, handing her the Oracle’s card.

Ms Maro had said he could return if he had questions, as long as he didn’t plan to sue her. He had no money for lawsuits.

This time, he would bring her something, he decided. Maybe her advice was sketchy last time because she hadn’t had lunch. His own stomach was growling, and there was nothing edible in his flat. Maybe he would starve to death before figuring this out.

What was an appropriate offering for clarification? He’d spent his last cash on coffee for Molly. He had two pounds and change in his bank account. Not enough to buy much lunch, to say nothing of a gift for the Oracle.

He smiled hopefully at several nice-looking women, thinking that maybe he could avoid seeking clarification if his soul mate suddenly announced herself, but all of them ignored him. Not many women looked at a man limping along with a cane and thought, _there’s my soulmate_.

He looked for places to get a quick bite. Having so little money meant he was limited to coffee shops, he decided. A Starbucks was across the street. No, they were expensive. He couldn’t even get a small cup of plain coffee for two pounds.

He turned around. On this side of the street he saw a sign: _Destiny Doughnuts._

Inside, he looked at the assortment. Frosting, sugar, powdered sugar. Chocolate, jelly, glazed.

“Two doughnuts with sprinkles.”

The cashier put them in a wax bag. “Two twenty-one.”

He pulled out his bank card as the price appeared on the register. Rather coincidental, he thought, that this final purchase would put him at zero balance. “Two twenty-one, you said?” _Wasn’t that the address of the flat, the one he might be sharing with Sherlock?_ He handed over his card, watched her slide it through the reader.

Feeling inspired by this obvious sign, he limped onwards towards Delphi Street.

Deirdre with the purple hair glanced up when he entered. Today she looked bored and a bit sullen. Maybe the Oracle had chewed her out for running out of teabags. “May I help you?”

“Hi. John Watson. I was here yesterday. Ms Maro said I might return if I had questions.”

“She’s not doing clarifications today. That’s Wednesdays only.”

“Please ask her,” he said, smiling his most engaging smile. “Tell her I brought doughnuts. With sprinkles.”

This apparently did the trick. Once he was ushered in, he handed her his gift. She peered into the bag. “I’ve just had lunch.”

“Oh. I remembered that you were hungry last time. If you don’t want them both, I’ll eat one. I haven’t had lunch.”

She pulled out a doughnut and bit into it. “So, what’s your question?”

“Well, it isn’t about doughnuts. I was just hungry and I didn’t have much money left, and I remembered you thought sprinkles were a good idea.” He cleared his throat. “I followed your advice, but I haven’t met my soulmate yet. I just wondered if there might be more to the prophecy you gave me.”

“You’re impatient,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “I feel like this needs to happen soon, before…” he sighed. “I need clarification. I followed your directions exactly. Maybe I’m not seeing something that’s right in front of me.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“First, I haven’t touched any fortune cookies.”

She took another bite of doughnut. “Mmph.”

“Second, I went to the British Museum because I’d never been there. I stuck my finger on a map and that’s where it said to go, so I went.”

“Did you see the mummies? They’re not actually British, you know.”

“I would assume they’re Egyptian. Nobody talked to me the entire time I was there, not even in the gift shop. And nobody looked like they could be a soulmate. School kids and grandparents.After that, I went to Russell Square to sit for a while and rest my leg. While I was there, someone spoke to me.”

“What did that person say?”

“He said, _John Watson!_ —which is my name, by the way.” He wasn’t sure if she remembered. “It was somebody who already knew me, you see. Is that all right? Was it supposed to be a stranger?”

“No. It would be creepy if a stranger knew your name. What did you talk about?”

“I told him I needed a flatshare and he said he knew somebody who might be willing to go halves with me. So I followed him to Bart’s Hospital. He took me down to the morgue and introduced me to the bloke who was looking for a flatmate. And I met a woman.”

“The morgue, that’s good.” The Oracle licked her fingers. “Was this woman luminous?”

“Not really. I was willing to give her a chance, though. I went to see her again this morning, just to learn more about her. I brought her a cup of coffee because, well… I wanted to see if she might have been having an off day.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she didn’t drink coffee, only tea. And that it wasn’t meant to be. Her horoscope had warned her.”

“Hm. That’s a bit of a turn-up, isn’t it?”

“She was decent about it. Not insulting or anything. Said I was nice, but she wasn’t attracted to nice people. I gave her your card.”

“Was she wearing lipstick?”

“No. Maybe gloss, but no colour. Lipstick doesn’t work for her.”

“Well, she’s obviously not the one. What about the other person, the flatshare guy?” She pressed her finger into the sprinkles that had fallen off the doughnut, placed it in her mouth.

He laughed. “It can’t be him. I’m not gay.”

“Yes, you are. Thanks for the doughnut.”

“Look, I’m not gay. I think I’d know if I was. And if you’ve got that wrong, I’m not sure I can believe anything you say.”

“Okay, you’re bisexual, then. You just haven’t figured it out yet. Are you saying you’ve never even looked at another man like that?”

“Well, no, I’m not saying— I suppose all men go through a phase— you know, sex is the only thing you think about when you’re— well, I think I’d know.”

“Bi,” she said.

He wasn’t sure if she meant _bisexual_ or _bye, your time’s up_, but he persisted. “Doesn’t matter. Odd fellow. He was actually a bit rude. Started telling me all these things about myself—”

“Were they true?”

“Yes, and there’s no way he could have looked me up because he couldn’t have known I was coming. Not unless he’s an oracle, too.”

She snorted. “Not likely.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. He’s not my soulmate. Can’t you give me another prophecy? Just a little clue?”

“That will cost you another doughnut.”

He pushed the bag at her. “Fine. Tell me.”

She took a bite of the second doughnut. “Okay: you’ll recognise your soulmate when you stop limping. Whoever cures your psychosomatic limp— male or female— that’s who you’re looking for. That’s your Cinderella test.”

At least it wasn’t his physiotherapist, Mark. He’d been seeing him for weeks now and still limped. And it wasn’t Ella.

He met his new flatmate that evening, after spending another day at the library, listening to his belly complain. There were no doughnuts.

Sherlock said seven, so he made sure he was standing at the door when Sherlock's cab pulled up. The man was good looking, he decided, in an alien sort of way.

He was never sure afterwards how to explain what happened next— how he happened to find himself limping along after Sherlock, kneeling beside a dead body, being kidnapped by a very posh man with a limo, stopping at his bedsit to pick up his gun; eating at a restaurant where the owner, Angelo, seemed to think they were on a date; then chasing a cab driver— down alleys, up fire escapes, across rooftops— and finding himself back at the flat.

Time, which had been a glacier for weeks, had suddenly started to move rather quickly. In a period of hours, he’d gone from _nothing ever happens to me_ to giggling in the stairwell with his flatmate because _that was ridiculous_. It was truly the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done, and it filled him with something he barely recognised. Excitement, anticipation. Joy.

“What are we doing now?” he asked, still breathing hard from the chase.

“Proving a point.” Sherlock smiled. “Fulfilling a prediction. Get the door, John.”

When he opened the front door, Angelo stood there smiling, holding his cane.

This was going to be a problem. No, it already was a problem. Over dinner, he had probed, even flirted a bit, trying to tease out whether Sherlock was already involved with someone— man, woman, didn’t matter. If he wasn’t, that least it would mean that his own soulmate was still out there, somewhere. It wasn’t that Sherlock Holmes was unattractive. And it wasn’t that he didn’t like the man. It was that he didn’t think his luminous someone would be male. Or such a madman.

All right, the oracle had said _you haven’t figured it out yet,_ meaning he didn’t recognise his own orientation. She had said that John’s soulmate would cure his limp_. _She’d seemed sure about it.

And right there was the problem. John hadn’t even noticed that he’d been running, that his pain had disappeared. And then Angelo, the cane. It could only mean one thing: it was Sherlock. He was meant to be with him.

But Sherlock was married to his work, he’d said, which meant that Fate hadn’t bothered to tell the git that his soulmate had turned up. He seemed quite impervious to John’s awkward attempts to hit on him. He remembered the words that had made him blush and stammer:_ while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any kind of ..._

_Too hesitant_, he chided himself. Perhaps it was fear of rejection. Sherlock was good-looking, fascinating, brilliant. John was ordinary, average… and that was about it. His nickname, Three Continents, notwithstanding, he’d never been a magnet for female attention. He supposed that his mates had meant it ironically, seeing how hard he tried to pick up women. He was an acceptable date, a nice person, as Molly had said. He was not sure what Sherlock’s league was, but he was positive that he wasn’t in it.

The Oracle was never wrong. She’d said _that person will be your soulmate._

He’d faithfully followed the signs, looked for enlightenment. _The universe is rarely so lazy._

He’d been looking for his soulmate, the person he was meant to spend the rest of his life with. Sherlock had cured his limp.

But Sherlock wasn’t looking for him.

Well, John wasn’t asking him to for his hand in marriage. He was just looking for a flatmate. He could move in and see where things went. Sherlock might consider himself married to his work, but perhaps he was open to an affair with his probably-not-completely-straight flatmate.

A week ago, he would not have considered a gay relationship as an answer to his problems. Now he was seriously considering it. And why not? He’d been dying slowly, wasting away in his bedsit. A few hours with Sherlock, and he was totally focused, no longer limping. He felt like a new man.

Maybe he was bisexual. Hell, maybe he was gay, or pansexual, or something he’d never imagined, all because he’d been so busy being straight. And miserable.

Maybe it didn’t matter. The Cinderella Test had proved it. Sherlock had to be the one.

By the time he’d gone through all of these mental gyrations, Sherlock had left in a cab, destination unknown. Lestrade and company were closing down the drugs bust, packing up and going home, leaving John alone in the flat.

Feeling unsettled, at loose ends, he began to tidy up the kitchen. Takeaway boxes into the bin, newspapers for the recycling—

Takeaway. Chinese food. A fortune, lying on the table next to the chop sticks.

_Trust your instincts; follow your heart._

Where was Sherlock? John had seen him get into a cab and drive off. Annoying, how the man just ran off whenever he got the notion—

_Why do I have my gun? _It was just an instinct at the time. _I said ‘dangerous,’ and here you are. _

The cabby, looking for a fare, _hunting in the middle of a crowd_ for someone needing a ride. John’s heart thudded.

“Jesus,” he said, grabbing the laptop. “Sherlock, where are you?”

And he saw. The phone was tracking on the laptop’s screen, showing him where Sherlock was going. Grabbing the laptop, he ran down to the street and hailed a cab.

Some minutes later, he was inside Roland-Kerr College, running up and down the corridors, shouting for his flatmate, who might possibly be his soulmate as well.

Panic flooded his veins. _Find Sherlock. Save Sherlock._

Turning a corner, he saw a sign: _In Case of Emergency—_

He pulled the book out of his pocket (_sirens, gunshots, near-death experiences_), flipped the pages, stabbed his finger, and read: _Look through the window._

He looked. There, in a building parallel to the one he was in, stood Sherlock, about to take a poison pill, too curious to resist. And there was the cabbie, grinning like a maniac. Well, he was a maniac. Not a very nice man.

_We’re all maniacs here._

He took his gun out of his waistband, aimed it at the cabbie, and fired.

He waited in the parking lot, leaning up against a police car. Sherlock was wearing an orange shock blanket, talking with Lestrade. Watching them, he tried to imagine their conversation. Sherlock, in deduction mode. At one point, he turned and looked at John, his face registering something. The blanket was shrugged off, and Sherlock began walking towards him. He looked rather luminous, John thought. Funny he hadn’t noticed it before.

“End of Baker Street,” Sherlock said as he approached, “there’s a good Chinese stays open ’til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Well, sometimes you can tell. More often than not. And I can always predict the fortune cookies.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Well, I almost can. And I’m paying because you’re broke.”

“How did you know?”

“I keep hearing your stomach rumble. Shall we?”

The man was an oracle, John decided. He explained how he knew about the phone, and his sister (not brother). Well, there was always something. An oracle might get little things wrong, but as long as they got the important things right…

“So,” he said. “I guess we’re flatmates.”

“Obviously, John. Do keep up.”

“I mean, we seem compatible… in some weird way.” He smiled. “Do you believe in fate?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fate is just another word for coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy.”

John opened his phone, checked his bank balance. “Idiots. My cheque still hasn’t been deposited.”

“I predict that it will be there in the morning,” Sherlock said, picking up a fortune cookie. Smiling, he broke the cookie, and without reading the fortune, handed it to John. “Try me.”

John took the fortune. “What does it say?”

“It says…” Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling. “_You’ve just met someone luminous.”_

They shared the cookie.

~An Epilogue~

He never went to see the Oracle again. Why tempt fate when everything was already unfolding as she had divined? Sherlock was luminous, and John was happy to bask in that light, to conduct it when needed. And, to his utter surprise, he was quite open to an affair. Sometimes things are right there, and you don’t see them, he decided. At a crossroads, it’s good to see the signs, but he’d chosen his road now, and wasn’t looking back.

The book sat on the shelf. Maybe someday, he thought, he’d read it to the end. Find out what happened to all those fucking aliens.

He suspected that Molly had visited the Oracle, though she never said so. She had stopped reading horoscopes, she told him, and had met a nice fellow who didn’t care whether she wore lipstick. She looked luminous.

Mrs Hudson, the landlady, seemed to be a kind of oracle as well. As she’d predicted, they only needed one bedroom.


End file.
